


Midnight Blue - Snippets

by SLWalker



Series: Midnight Blue [17]
Category: Midnight Blue - Fandom, due South
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8308456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: Snippets from across the timeline of Midnight Blue.  Might be one or two that aren't Chase-centric, too.  (Chapter 3 added 1/11; just as a note, I'm always willing to accept prompts for Midnight Blue)





	1. Passing

She did the same thing every morning. First was waking Mike up, so he could brush his teeth and get dressed, but sometimes he didn't get his buttons right, so he'd stand in her door, waiting until she noticed him; she was always doing the same thing by then, using a bunch of stuff on her face, changing it.  
  
The colors weren't always the same. He didn't know what they meant, but he was starting to get that they had _some_ purpose. Most of the time, when he knew he got his buttons right, he'd sit at the kitchen table, swinging his feet, waiting until Mom came in, but sometimes he watched and tried to guess why. Even when she wasn't going anywhere, even when she wasn't feeling so good, she always sat at her mirror, painting her face.  
  
The only time he ever saw her face without anything on it was when she woke him up.  
  
It was one of those mornings where she noticed him; watched him in the mirror, then gestured him over. When she put her arm around him, he snuggled into her side and they watched each others' reflections, though Mike only cared that Mom was hugging him.  
  
"You have your father's nose," she said, finally, like this was a good thing.  
  
"But I have your eyes," he answered, grinning back at her proudly, rubbing the back of his head against her shoulder.  
  
He didn't understand why that made her look less happy, but she nodded. "You do."  
  


* * *

 

  
"Nah, there's no way."  
  
"I'm tellin' you, it's true. Here, let's ask: Hey, Chase! You part Indian?"  
  
Mike paused on the way to the coffee pot, eyebrow climbing skyward, baffled. "Not that I know of."  
  
Gillespie huffed while Byron smirked. "See? Told you there was no way."


	2. Currents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1981: Mike has had a lot of bad calls; this was one of them. Written for Exbex.

He knew how to read rivers.

Knew how to see the currents even under the surface, even when it seemed calm; could see under the foam, around the backs of rocks to a whirl, a circle back, rotation into pools where trout would rest and wait for the swifter currents to spin food into the deep blue.

Trout.

Bodies weren’t that different.

“Union-foxtrot twelve, radio; when the Dogmaster comes on-scene, tell him I’m northeast the residence on the river,” Mike said into his portable, and then clipped it back on his belt once he heard the acknowledgment from dispatch, picking his way along the brushy shore and reading the river, stripping it mentally to its bones, rebuilding it in theory.

These kinds of calls were a tossup, but Mike never went into them hopeful.  That way, when the happy ending came, it was joyful instead of expected.  That way, when it didn’t, he hadn’t gotten his hopes up.

That didn’t stop him from cajoling the universe for the better end.

The call had come in only thirty minutes ago, but the little boy hadn’t been seen in over an hour.  He had been playing in his yard.  His father, wringing a shopcloth in his hands over and over, insisted again and again that the boy knew better than to go near the river, because some part of him had to know.  Some part of him had to already know.

The ground was drier than usual, prints were hard, so Mike just paused here or there to watch the river, and that lead him to some snapped off branches and some yarn and a broken bobber or two.  He didn’t touch them.

He gave a nod to himself and then followed the trampled grass, the bent sticks, the whispering currents of river, and he thought about where he would fish if he were six years old, too.  He’d told the family to stay put, despite their willingness to trample down there calling the boy’s name, because if the worst was what happened, then he didn’t want them seeing it.

The first solid prints he found in river mud were right at the edge.

Little feet.  A bit of broken string.  A scramble against bank.  A rock with a new scrape in it.

Mike closed his eyes for one heartbeat, then read the water and when he picked his gaze up, there was vivid blue in blue.

He called off the dogmaster as he pushed through the brush; called for the medics, called for the chaplain instead.  He untangled the little body once named Ryan from the brush his legs got tangled in.  He pulled him on shore and even though he knew it was too late, he tried to breathe life back into the kid, he listened to the vague crackle of ribs as he tried to push blood through the small, cold body.  He only quit when the paramedics took over, but all of them knew.

He answered some questions, calm.  One of the guys asked, “Hey, Chase, you okay?” and Mike said, “Yeah,” and then the somber group started clearing the scene, and Mike went back to pick up the homemade fishing rod, with red yarn and broken bobber because–

Because.  Because Ryan had made it to go fishing.  Because he had sat on this shore and tied that knot with the bowtie he tied his shoes in, and he tied a bobber on, and he thought he’d catch a fish on yarn without a hook, and two hours ago, this was what this little boy did.

Mike sat on the edge of his bed, face in his hands or fists in his hair, until he ran out of tears.


	3. Lucky Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1983: Mike knows how to pick and choose his battles. (He's also an irredeemably sappy FTO sometimes.)

It was pouring down rain. This, in itself, wasn’t even a slightly uncommon thing to happen in Surrey.

The uncommon thing was the sight of his rook, all six feet and two inches of him, with arms wrapped around the scraggliest golden retriever mix that Mike had ever seen, while the poor dog was bathing Brett’s face in dog saliva.

“C'mon, Corp, this is going to be sleet by nightfall,” Brett pleaded, apparently unaware that the moment he put arms around the dog, Mike’s war for the cruiser’s seats had already been lost.

Mike palmed the water off of his face and dropped his head and groaned, and then didn’t look up when he said, “All right. Let me go get a couple bags out of the trunk.”

They spent the rest of the shift with a much happier yet still stinky dog hanging out in the backseat of 10-Bravo-6. Six hours of Mike feeling vaguely nauseated from the smell of wet dog meets dog breath, and six hours of Mike failing to chew down a smile every time Brett slipped the dog a bite of a sandwich or a little piece of a donut.

Mike wasn’t actually shocked at all four days later when Brett sheepishly admitted that Chevron – nicknamed Chevy and Chev and Good Boy and Lucky Dog – was back at Brett’s apartment sleeping on his bed and with brand new tags on a brand new collar.


	4. Court of Public Opinion

“Are they all okay?”  
  
The chorus of tiny, heart-aching meows was encouraging, but Mike was still fretting about it, even as he was trying to warm up enough not to turn into a block of ice on the river bank. Thank God the sick person who threw the kittens off the bridge had put them in plastic, weird as that was to think. But cloth would have sank before Mike could go after them, and yeah, he knew he was going to get a strip torn off his hide for jumping into a river to rescue a bunch of kittens, but he figured he’d have the court of public opinion on his side.   
  
Especially with the decent number of spectators who had gathered when they saw a Mountie fling his gunbelt in the trunk of his cruiser then leap into the Fraser River.  
  
His cruiser was now off with his rook, he was well downstream (the currents having dragged him pretty far), but if they all lived, it was worth it. Brett had gone after the car the cats had been thrown from; Mike hoped he got the person who did it.  
  
“Yep. Cold, a little wet, but yeah.” The off-duty fireman was busy wrapping the little kittens into towels, t-shirts and whatever else the spectators had with them to donate to the cause. He handed one little gray and white kitten to Mike, and Mike cuddled the shivering, towel-wrapped little body close. Even if he didn’t have any body heat to spare.  
  
Twenty-five minutes later, when the sergeant showed up, Mike was wrapped in someone’s picnic blanket, the kitten was kneading a hole in the skin over his collarbone through his uniform shirt, and Brett had caught the guy who had done it.  
  
“Of all the crazy, hare-brained stunts, Corporal…” the sergeant started, but when he was met with two blankly innocent looks back from a Mountie and a kitten, he just sighed.


	5. Smoke Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Russ can't deal with it anymore.

Sandburg was a former teacher, former ranch hand, former Hollywood extra, current smoker, current Mountie.  
  
The cloud of blue smoke that lingered in the detachment's main office inevitably was met with three things: Disinterest by Mitchell, an annoyed scowl by Chase and desperate craving by Russ Severn.  
  
Russ had given up smoking a few years ago, and it was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Well, one of the hardest personal habits he'd ever had to quit, anyway. He had to quit drinking coffee because all it made him want was a cigarette. He still sometimes felt the urge to buy a pack of Lucky Strikes. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief every time that Sandy went out on patrol, just because it meant the fresh scent of a newly lit cigarette wasn't there to tempt him. He nodded along with Chase's grumbling complaints about the building smelling like an ashtray, never letting the Corporal in on the fact that his agreement was because he was so _tempted_.  
  
When he had to pray about it in church, though, pray for the strength not to pick up a cigarette and light it up, inhaling that thick, full-flavored scent deep into his yearning lungs, Russ knew he had a problem.  
  
The next day, he went out and bought no-smoking signs. That afternoon, he enlisted Chase's help -- Mitchell wanted nothing to do with potentially pissing Sandy off -- in clearing the detachment of ashtrays and cigarette butts, much to Chase's barely suppressed glee. The next morning, when Sandy came in to start his shift, Russ was waiting for him.  
  
"The building's smoke-free."  
  
Sandy stopped with his lighter halfway to the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Looking at him calmly, impassively. For the longest moment, Russ was absolutely sure that he was going to light it anyway.  
  
Russ tried to look as serious as he could.  
  
Sandy slowly lowered the lighter, after taking his cigarette out of his mouth. Then, a smirk spread under his mustache. "Couldn't stand the temptation anymore?"  
  
A thousand little denials rushed through Russ's mind, but his mouth answered honestly, "No."  
  
Sandy nodded, still slowly, then turned around and walked out. Russ breathed a sigh of relief.


	6. Eyeliner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's gossip was going to be _spectacular._

“They want you to shave.”  
  
Mike stared at his wife. Just stared. Twitched his mustache. Stared some more.  
  
Cindy was struggling to keep a straight face. “It’s for _charity_ ; those youth programs don’t pay for themselves, you know.”  
  
Mike kept staring.  
  
“It’ll grow back. I’m sure it’ll come back just as full and luscious as before,” Cin said, then she had to press her lips together tightly, trying to hold back the laughter.  
  
Mike raised an eyebrow.  
  
Cindy cracked up.

  
–

  
_“Mike…”_  
  
“I’m _trying_ , Cin,” Mike said, rolling his eyes and knotting his hands on his lap.  
  
Cindy readjusted her grip on her eyeliner pencil with one hand, and her husband’s chin with the other. “All right. Just roll your eyes again, and don’t unroll them.” A beat. “And don’t raise that eyebrow right now, either.”  
  
Mike sighed and did as he was told, yet again. For the sixth time.

  
–

  
It was almost a shame to ruin her work by putting him in that dress. It was gaudy, pink and huge; Cindy didn’t speculate on who could have owned it before. “All of this, just so you could keep your facial hair?”  
  
“The dress is a one-night thing, Cin. But I’ve been working on my mustache since _Depot_.” Mike struggled his arms into the pink satin, and Cindy tried to keep herself from staring at his eyes. Sure, the rest of him was going to be decked out in princess regalia, but she refused to do more than put black eyeliner on him, and seeing him standing in the bathroom in his shorts and said eyeliner was enough to make her palms sweat. In all the best ways. The dark eyeliner brought out the brown of his eyes and highlighted the shape; the effect was striking, to say the least.  
  
“Fair enough,” she said, absently, and when he met her gaze, she utterly forgot to check the fit of the dress.

  
–

  
“All right, I’m on my way,” Mike said, and he had to be one of the very few men (if not the only one) who answered a call to a barfight while he was in the middle of modelling in a pink satin ballgown, including a  _tiara_. He put the phone up and turned to Cindy. “Got my street clothes? Turnbull needs backup; the Hawks fans have gotten out of control again.”  
  
“Yeah,” Cindy said, handing the bag over. She stood back while Mike dashed into the bathroom and then back out only about three minutes later, pulling off something not unlike Superman to change that fast.  
  
“Wait, Mike–!” she said, starting after him out the door, but he was already gone too fast for her to tell him he was still wearing his tiara. And eyeliner.  
  
Tomorrow’s gossip was going to be spectacular.


	7. Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1998: Mike and Cath at Brett's funeral.

They were under two and a half feet of snow in Nipawin, but it was pouring rain in Burnaby.  
  
If Mike felt anything about being back on his old stomping grounds, it was buried under the reasons why he was. He knew why they were all in suits and not red serge, knew why Brett's funeral was covert, but he didn't like it. The man deserved full regimental treatment, but since he was an undercover operative, he couldn't have it.  
  
Mike was one of his pallbearers, which he supposed was fitting since Brett had been his best man, but he wasn't sure why he thought that.  
  
Cathy stood next to him, her husband on her other side. The last time they'd all been together was at _her_ wedding, where she'd walked down the aisle in her review order, which finally looked just like theirs. Mike had seen them here or there after, but not at the same time, and after Turnbull--  
  
He bared his teeth momentarily at the heartache; a mixed, sharp pain. Losing two; the first, the last. At least Turnbull was still alive.  
  
Mike wasn't listening to the service, just half-hid under Cath's umbrella and didn't care that the rain was soaking the opposite shoulder of his suit, and tried to remember what it felt like to not be drowning constantly.  
  
What it felt like to look at the world and not see loss everywhere.  
  
He jumped when Cathy's hand found his and he looked down at where she threaded their fingers together, and then he looked up to see the tears sliding down her face. And after a moment, he tightened his grip to match hers and closed his eyes and tipped his head back and let his own tears fall.  
  
Marking another goodbye.


End file.
